Blue
by livvykitty
Summary: This is an ode to America, who would always be loved by Native America. Now America wants nothing more than to hear Nature once more, just as he had when he was just born, just as he had when he was truly free.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or the song Blue Lips. **

**Happy birthday, America! This story is loosely based off of Blue Lips…**

* * *

_He stumbled, into faith and thought…_

_God, this is all there is? _

_The pictures in his mind arose…_

_And began to breathe._

* * *

The first day was the hardest. As he took his first breath, he felt the very earth beneath his feet tremble with the fragile life of it. His first glimpse was of the expanse of wide blue sky and soft winds blowing through the grassy plain, the sweet scent of flowers drifting to him.

His eyes followed a bird flying high in the sky, watching in awe as it dipped and dived, reveling in the air's caress. It dipped close to him, giving a sweet chirp in greeting. He shakily opened his mouth and repeated the note as best he could. It seemed to wave a bright blue wing before it took to the skies once more. He knew exactly what he wanted to be from that moment. He wanted to be free.

Then, the sweet period of ignorance was over.

On that same field, he saw the apparition of a woman with a kind smile. She was planting a strangely colored plant before she turned to him. She smiled, blue eyes that mirrored his own sparkling in the light of the warm sun. Waves of ebony hair cascaded and fell over her tanned shoulders like water flowing over rocks.

Then the kind face became conflicted. She opened her mouth in a soundless scream as the many symbols on her cloak glowed and dimmed, some disappearing completely. She was in such horrible pain, something that hurt his heart greatly.

Then the kind woman looked horrified. Blood spilled from fresh wounds. He looked in horror, looking as the woman he thought he knew died. She seemed to have holes through her flesh, clean and precise. She collapsed, five words spilling from her parted and bruised lips, _'America, I am Native America…'_ Then, she started to fade. In her place was the beautiful cloak she wore, detailed with the symbols of all the tribes that roamed the land.

He then decided that his name would be America and that he would never forget her.

* * *

_And all the gods and all the worlds _

_Began collecting in a backdrop of blue…_

* * *

America was afraid of them. He was sure that these men had been the ones who killed Mother Native America, and now they wanted to find him. These men tried to tempt him out. He didn't want their silly looking food! The wise owl had taught him what plants were edible already.

But then America saw one of the men bring his knees to his chest. The wind told him that he was sad while the birds warned not to go near him. America was a kind soul, however, and couldn't leave anyone or anything hurt. He walked to the stranger's side, patting him on the knee and smiling. "It's okay!"

The other strange man muttered to himself and pouted. He creeped America out…

* * *

_He took a step and then felt tired._

_He said, "I'll rest… a little while…"_

_But when he tried to walk again,_

_He was no longer a child._

* * *

America's kindness had condemned him. He watched as the birds outside his window flew in that carefree way they always had. He wished more than ever that he could understand them again, just as he had when he was younger. He wished he could go back to ways Mother taught him. Sighing, he leaned against it, the cold steel of the gun in his lap chilling him. Soon, he would join the birds in their freedom.

The march was long and filled with dread. No, he wasn't afraid of losing. He was afraid of the look on England's face when he won. He and his men surrounded Yorktown. From the windows of the fort, he could see red-clad soldiers drill and drink. He would be sending them to their deaths.

The first day of the siege was filled with cannon fire. The smoke and ash filled the air, blocking the sun and shadowing any man's hopes. The sounds were deafening. Loud bangs and booms resounded, mixing with the cries of fallen men and the pain of the wounds rapidly appearing on his body. Even so, he still fought on.

The next day, the nearby town, it was discovered, was completely decimated. America stood among the rubble of what once had been a living, thriving part of his body. He could hear nothing. The voices of those people were gone forever, a chilling mark of something he didn't mean to do. He didn't mean to hurt his own people.

The days after that dragged on. America spent most of them listening to the wind and the song that nature created, if only to catch the faintest inkling of the voices and spirits that had once been his friends. Nature was silent, hiding itself away from him.

It was days-or had it been weeks? America had stopped keeping track of the time. One rainy day, one starved figure stumbled out of the fortress. He held his gun threateningly, seemingly looking to attack. America almost didn't recognize England.

The nation's face was dirty, cuts smeared with dried blood. Tear sparkled emerald eyes looked wearily forwards as thin legs stumbled along to hold up the protruding ribs and sucked in stomach hidden away in a red coat. Gashed arms gripped tightly onto a gun, bayonet glinting in the light.

America headed the small legion of troops behind him, all ready to fire at England if necessary. As the rain started to pour down on the two combatants, America could see the dirt wash away from England's gaunt and pale face and plastered his hair to his forehead.

America tried to look strong as he fingered the gun in his hands. "I'm not your colony, nor your little brother, anymore. I'm independent." The words felt foreign and bitter on his tongue, as if some force had spoken through him. His people had spoken.

"You will be my colony!" England charged at America, forcing the bayonet at him and closing his eyes tightly. America defended with his gun before it was knocked from him. America stared England unflinchingly as the bayonet pointed at his heart. He was afraid. He wasn't afraid of death, no. He was afraid of how England would react if he died.

_He can't do it._

The downpour pounded in his ear, a strong and steady beating merging with his heart like the steady drum. The rain had spoken. If there was anything America had learned, he had learned that nature was never wrong.

"I… can't…" The gun falls from England's trembling fingers as he collapses to his knees. He sobs, a sound that breaks your heart. This was what you tried to stop that day when you chose him over France. And now, you can't stop it. "Why…? Dammit… I could never hurt you…"

As the older nation wept, America looked down at him, pale tears running from blue eyes. "You used to be so strong…" He turned away. He walked past his men, still hearing England's heartbreaking calls even as they became silenced.

"_Come back!" "Please!" "I'm sorry!" "Don't leave me alone!"_

"_Please…"_

The birds that America loved, with their freedom and strength, did not sing.

* * *

_The pictures in his mind awoke…_

_And began to breed._

* * *

America looked over his land. The land of beauty and majesty. The land of freedom. Looking over the wilderness, ideas began to form. He would improve the lifestyle of his people. He would do things no one else had attempted.

He would be able to launch into the sky one day.

A woman wept, crystal blue eyes clouded with tears. Nature tried to call out to America, their son, the one they had nurtured as a babe, but he could not hear. His heart seemed to lie elsewhere now. Native America could only watch in conflict with herself as America unknowingly planned to destroy the very land he loved. She cried as she became forgotten.

* * *

_He started underneath the apple tree,_

_And they chopped it down to make white picket fences,_

_And marching along the railroad tracks,_

_He smiled real wide for the camera lenses._

_He made it past enemy lines,_

_Only to be enslaved in assembly lines…_

* * *

Had it really been worth it? America looked sadly out over the polluted city. Just two hundred years before, it had been his favorite view. He used to be able to see the clear blue skies and feel the wind as it rushed past him to play amongst the green blades of grass.

Could he really pretend to be happy when his heart hurt so badly? He felt as if he had failed. No amount of awards or records, or even McDonald's, would bring the view back. The pollution had run deep and he barely heard birds anymore. Nature had left him. Mother would probably hate him if she were alive.

America took a breath before letting it go in a shuddering sigh. Why did he do this to himself? Why would he do this to his people, force them to live amongst the filth and muck? Why would he kill Nature, his friend? Why would he disgrace Native America?

He felt the sting of tears and didn't push them down. Not for the first time, he hated himself. Closing his eyes, America could imagine Native America, with her kind smile and wise blue eyes. He could hear her voice as she pet his hair and told him, _"Don't cry. Don't hate yourself. Keep moving forward. And most of all…"_

"_Don't forget me."_

America sighed as he opened his eyes. Through the smog of the city, he caught a flash of bright blue. He smiled. Blue Jays had always been his favorite kind of bird. His gaze was soon captivated by it as it twirled and spun through the air, a steady dance that melded with his heart.

_You will save us._

America's eyes widened as the bird flew away. Finally, after a few moments of shock, a smile spread on his face. He could do it. He looked at the dirty city and he began to have ideas. He would fix everything.

After all this time, a blue jay had spoken.

Native America smiled as she watched her son plan to fix everything he had done and breathe new life into Nature. She sighed, allowing her breath to carry across the city and her touch to fill the sky with stars. She stepped back, admiring the pretty blue of the Earth. As she breathed night into the world, she smiled.

Native America would always watch over America.

After all, he would always be her dearest child.

* * *

_Blue lips,_

_Blue veins,_

_Blue, _

_The color of our planet from far, far away…_

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed! I would love some constructive feedback on this (even if this was written at midnight).**


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